Vale of Tears
by ToxicKittyCat
Summary: La Gazza Ladra, a vast and powerful firm that controls the economy of The Eastern World; so why does it attract British Goverment and Sherlock Holmes? There's a great threat hoovering above the innocent, and Sherlock will have to rely on his friendship more than ever; soon he'll have to pick between what's good and what's better. Even when it would cost his well being.
1. 00

"_People feel emotions. Emotions lead to mistakes. Mistakes lead to pain. You cannot be human without either._"

**So you've clicked this one, and I guess you are waiting for a thrilling story that would keep you flipping the pages? I hope I will not disappoint you. **

**Declaimer.: Does my name pop up during the opening credits of your favourite TV drama? No? Therefore I am not in ownership of Sherlock, but of this story I am.**

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><p><strong>A<strong> is for an alphabet,

which we are going to play

**B** is because today is the day,

**C** is for crime, cold and so bitter,

stirring the story, making it grittier

**D** is for both Deduction, Detective;

things that make him so awfully

**E**ffective

**F** is for failure, which will come soon after;

**G** is for gore and grief that will accompany with laughter.

**H** is for Holmes, brothers or one,

**I** is for me, the hero and swine.

**J** for Jokes that are in that statement woven,

**K** for knowledge, which we praise as our own.

**L** stands for Laughter, my dearest bliss

**M** is for me, murder and miss.

**N** is for the never, with an elongated hiss.

**O** for the look on your face

**P** is for manner, time and place.

**Q** are the questions, the ones without answer.

**R** is for rescue, which makes him a dancer.

**S** is for him, the great detective.

**T** stands for truth, always deflective.

**U** between the I and the O.

**V** is for very as in "miss you so"

**W** for the warning, like a big red

**X**!

**Y **is for you- as you're next

**Z** is for the finale, already grand and planned.

And I cannot stop smiling, because everything rhymed!

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><p><strong>0.0<strong>

_The Water Tank_

**-Detective- **

The doors behind us lock with a jolt. So cliché!  
>He is going to trap us here? In this small, metallic room; well, that would explain the crates above our heads. I look around trying to find anything suspicious, but the room is clanging with nothing but air vents on the feet level and knit of thick, metal bars two meters above our heads...<p>

Or maybe he will let us stand here and wait for starvation.

"Sherlock." Mutters John, he is now pointlessly trying to push the further wall, as if expecting to find some sort of a trap-door. The wall! It gives everything away; it is coated with creaking layer of rust and trails of something looks like liquid.

"It is a water tank." I breathe out. Yes, _fit_s. The air vents are the water taps, crate above us is just for the psychological torture. He's going to drown us.

"Jesus Christ!" John cries when realising what I have on mind. But no, he won't kill me that way- it's anticlimactic, not his cup of tea. Mortiarty is an ace with quizzes and riddles. It's a puzzle! It must be! Now, how to solve that one?

"What is that noise?" John says in the background. "Have you heard that noise?"  
>And I did, it came from the vents, created by flushing water, which is now gradually climbing towards our shoe soles. John isn't keen on keeping his profanity, and swears stammer out when the centimetres of water reach all of the four sides of room.<br>Think, it is a puzzle; There had to be something on those blueprints- a pattern- of the water railings maybe? I tune out- tracing the images flashing faintly in my head. No. No. Nothing, he had to give something- number or word. Strings of verbs and numbers and motifs appear in my head- but I cannot find a linkage or an application to them.

"Sherlock."  
>This <em>has<em> to be a puzzle! He won't kill me other way! Or am I lying to myself? He surely can. What a disgraceful and pointless murder, but, would surely put a smile on his lips. I die out of my stupid mistake, out of my own stupidity. I should've taken a perceptive step or something, but I bashed inside like a daredevil.

"Sherlock."

The water now climbs up my shoes.  
>I can hear my internal clock ticking- judging by the water volume and discharge, comparing to the measurements of the room we have two minutes until running out of breathing space.<p>

"Sherlock."  
>I dreamed of going off with a bang, heroism, but this closure will be slow and sloppy. Moriarty drew a line under this one- imagine Mycroft's face. It is over and it does hurt.<p>

"Sherlock."  
>But I won't give him that satisfaction. I will break out; crack this code even if it is nonexistent.<p>

"Sherlock."  
>But <em>how<em>? The crates? Are two meters above my head- metal is unimportant- I won't be able to dislodge them. Block the water flow- come on- even Graham would've known better; Or Grayson or something. Unimportant!

"Sherlock."  
>Cameras- there have to be cameras. Moriarty would love to see me struggle, but everywhere I look I see nothing.<p>

"Sherlock!"

The water is now ten centimetres above my waist, soon John will have to swim to keep afloat. Then the water would push us at the crates. We would cling to air but will be unable to touch it. Maybe if we make a straw long enough- _straw are you serious_?  
>I laugh out of my stupidity and I hear Mycroft laughing his heads off too.<p>

"Sherlock, stop playing those games!" John cries out. He actually thinks I have an answer. I don't. I don't, Such a Stupid boy.

"John." He looks me like at a saviour, his head sweaty as if he had just plunged under the water that coats his legs. He as well might've. I wonder what to tell him- last goodbyes? Assure it will be alright? Just cry? Or lie by saying that you know what you are doing? "I know what I am doing!"

He's so simple, he catches it. Sometimes it is such a helpful attribute of his, sometimes it might play as a dreadful aiming point.

"And that is?" He asks. Water now is on level with his chin, and climbs up my torso. It is cold and makes my clothes heavy and uncomfortable.  
>Mortiarty has to take our bodies' out- I can enter a state of hibernation- freeze my brain momentarily and active it as soon as the danger passes. Can John do that- no, normal people can't do that.<p>

"It is just a hallucinogen-" I assure him- and the lie is so plausible- maybe because I want to believe it myself. "We have been drugged- try to relax- when it washes down we're going to be safe and back in Mycroft's."

He considers this option for a moment, his hands move to sides trying to swim as the water level is now higher than him. I can hear his brain sketching in the gaps of this statement, accepting the unaccepted- human brain is so easy to fiddle with.

"Trust me." I say. _Great_, my last words to John are lies. I can literally hear Moriarty spinning in his chair, and laughing like a maniac. Or maybe it is my head? I want to shout and cry and swear and laugh because it is all so stupid- everything in this goddamn world is!

Walls of my mind are so painfully white. I am running towards him -Moriarty, there, in my head- and planting a punch after punch but he doesn't budge, I cry and hit faster and fiercer, cracking my fingers and maiming my arms, but he just stares and laughs.  
>The water is now so high we both swim, and it pushes us upwards so that our hairs scratch on the crates above. We exchange brief looks. John seems relaxed, waiting for the effect of the imaginary drug to be over; he even shyly mouths to me something. I look relaxed, or I hope I do. As alarms in my head go off- one after another- and I do nothing but punch the antagonist.<p>

We now cling to the railing and like fish, try to grasp the water from above. My arm waves in the air- trying to hold to air or helping ladder- just for assurance, just for an "as if".  
>John and I stare at each other under the water. I try to control my heart- I can if I focus enough- and to focus I need an aim.<p>

John.

My brain slows down for a while, collecting momentum, then it hits with its highest frequency. I feel that every nerve of my body is pulsing with electricity and I have that awful feeling of knowing that I am in control of everything- my breath, reflections, even heartbeat.

I make a deep beats, calculated so that they can put my cells into hibernation. Heart is myogenic, but I still have chance to control it- something I cannot relate to Moriarty.  
>John now opens his mouth and water flushes inside him, through the gaps between the air bubbles. He's going to die remembering that I am a liar. Or maybe not, I am going to die remembering that I lied to him. Which is worse?<br>Concentrate.

Oxygen is minimal in my system. Now, Time to shut down.  
>My persona is locked in the mind palace, throwing itself on the doors that won't open, and water is coming closer.<br>I open my mouth.  
>Persona shakes the handles and kicks the wood- but the water is still coming, like a tsunami, with debris of files and notes.<br>The liquid now floods down the trachea and oesophagus.  
>And then there's nothing.<p>

** Day Previously **

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><p><strong>Now, how will they get out of this one?<br>And what would John think when getting to know the truth?  
>If he is to survive that is...<br>Be tuned up to see the next chapter- which would show how the characters had landed in this situation initially.**

**Now short "Did-you-know" ado. This story has a dual point of view lapse- one told from simple, emotional perspective of John Watson (Blogger), and second one from cold and calculative Sherlock (Detective).**

**As you might've noticed- Its title is also play on the words- which is frequently done by Steven Moffat himself, when the original Bow, changes into Vow in His Last Vow; or Doyle's Study in Scarlet changes tone when becoming a Study In Pink.  
>Vale of Tears originates from original Sherlock Holmes novel: The Valley of Fear. Initially I wanted to name it, Hallway of Fear, but then changed into Valley of Tears, then it evolved into Vale of Tears which is a Christian phrase referring to the tribulations of life that Christian doctrine says are left behind only when one leaves the world and enters heaven. How does this contribute to the story? Well, I leave you up to your deductions.<strong>


	2. 10

**So chapter one held you under pressure? Or did you just press "the next chapter" just out of sake of it? This one is a form of retrospection, that would hopefully explain how the characters found themselves in the situation they were currently in.**

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><p><strong>Day Previously<strong>

**1.1**

_The Dame in the Water _

**-Blogger- **

She lied motionless, staring unblinkingly at the nonexistent heavens. Thin lips formed a faint O of her open mouth and halo of wet hair floated saintly arching over her face; her skin royally pale, just as the surface below. The naked posture hovered helplessly in the bath tub, and was disturbed occasionally by the paralysing, white flesh of the forensic cameras.

"Anna Torrington," Introduced the Inspector. "No apparent cause of death."  
>He was right, I could not see a scar, or bruise, or maim on this delicate surface. She must've floated in the water for hours, for her skin is shockingly white and partially translucent. She died with a shock locked on her face. Wonder what expression I would have when I die- smile seems too eerie, and pain disgraceful. Wonder if we get to pick in our final moments, but I guess life is not as generous.<br>Another snap of the camera brings me back to the reality.

"Doctor Watson." said the inspector to my right, a man of considerable age and tired eyes.

"No injures apparent, yes, I noted that." I stammered the words out accompanied by series of nods.

"Where is Mr. Holmes, doctor?" He asks.

"Mr Holmes has much more important matters on his mind." I lied, as my fellow comrade couldn't be bothered to come and investigate such an "abecedarian", as he described; case.

"He will be on the phone soon." I assured him a while later. To not look idiotic I tried to scrape some of my dignity and create an illusion of a clever mind. I kneeled and inspected the water in which corpse was found- like I expected, it was freezing and left my finger aching. Then I ventured to the 21-year-olds room, it was well looked after, but too cold for my tastes. Walls were decorated with awards, certificates and medals gleaming from bronze to silver. The small bedtable was populated with the intimate pictures of the victim with her boyfriend and a great, glass trophy moulded in shape of a ballet dancer. Anna Torrington could've been a world-class dancer, but the death is a most destructive force, as it is the only thing irreversible.  
>The static in the walkie-talkie broke and cold, clear voice of Sherlock Holmes moved down my spine.<p>

"Who's on the case?" Was his first question, quite unusual, as usually his initial words are answers.

"Inspector Jones." said I.

"That swine?" He comments. "This idiot cannot distinguish a gun from his-"

"Is that him?" Cut the inspector.

"Definitely." I said, covering the transmitter so that Jones doesn't get the details of the vivid insults. I gave the radio to the official.

"Mr Holmes?" Asked Inspector Jones. "Here is Detective Inspector Carlton Jones speaking."

He was answered by low hum of static, it was considerably long and I wondered if my companion had gone off line.

"The girl, for how long was she in the bath?" Finally Sherlock broke the elongating silence.

"Family says she took it at six o'clock, they've found her dead hour and half later." Explained Jones. "There was no sound coming from the bathroom, no sign of struggle, suffocation, weapon- or anything actually. It seems like she just died out of pure- shock- I guess"

"Do not say I guess, Dear Inspector, I abhor this choice of words." Sherlock mutters, I can hear aggressive sound of tapping coming from the other side. We walked back to the bathroom; forensics team had already transformed the place so that it looked like one of the St Bart's Labs.

"What's your theory, inspector." There's a mockery woven in the last word.

"I think she was electrocuted." Stated the inspector shyly.

"Was she? Her irises would've changed shape and hair would've caught aflame- even a five year old could've figured that out- and where's the source of the current? No hair dryer or plug nearby? Electrocution would cause contractions and emit smoke- why am I even expanding on that!" Sherlock sighed from frustration. "I called you for a reason-what was it again- no, John! I need you at Baker Street immediately, bring a gun."

"Sherlock..." I utter, lucky that he's not in the room, I would've considered snapping his neck, or at least attempted to.

It was an astounding sensation, voice of the great detective alone could transform grim death scene into an exciting environment. I guess it is the subtle enthusiasm coming from Holmes, according to him death of an individual is like a lifelong highlight. In his eyes murder is an enigmatic puzzle, he sees it as a mental exercise rather a great human tragedy. I see a young woman, with hobbies and ambitions, maybe even global fame and influence- now a useless clump of particles ready to be decomposed.

"We're all dead." I remember Sherlock once saying, it was on those rare occasions in which he attempted to convey a long and psychological dictations. "Human beings are constructed solely from lifeless blobs of energy. Believe or not, but there's no occurrence of life in the nature."

I remember laughingly dryly and asking: "So what is?"  
>He didn't answer.<p>

Inspector Jones, now clearly frustrated attempted to come with another theory: "It was then a myocardial infarction- autopsy would show-"

"Autopsy is what we'll have to perform when I butcher you from my fury. It had taken me 0.009 seconds, minus the Google search time, and not a step outside the house to come up with the answer, and you wasted twelve years of your life to receive a title of an Inspector, and still not be worth it."

"Sherlock" I whisper inaudibly.

"Not in a great humour?" Asked Jones craning away his head from the transmitter.

"He never is. Trust me, could have been worse." I flash the gentleman a smile as he returns to the conversation.

"It is a refined murder." I hear Sherlock speak. "Just look up her colleagues- she had competitors- search for one with a medical degree and one freshly returned from South America."

"Mr. Holmes" Inspector hisses.

"Listen I have no will nor time to continue, now, John." I crane my head in the other direction.

"Batrachotoxin, here's your answer, and diminish your contact with the water. Now I insist, give me John Watson." Inspector looks at the body, then at me, then back at the body, before deciding to give me the device. I start speaking as Jones goes to the forensics team.

"Poison Dart Frog?" I raise my eyebrows.

"Elementary, just had to Google her name up. Her associates even made an anti-friend forum. Isn't that charming? Talking about friends, I need you, Baker Street immediately, a matter of national importance and I am not bluffing." He speaks quickly and I leave with smile on my lips. Game was fierce in the air.

"Hey, where are you going?" Shouts Jones as I head towards the entry.

"Poison Dart Frog!" Is all I can say when storming outside the house, passing the sobbing family of Anna and tiger-strapped police banners shouting with black: NO ENTRY

**1.2**

_The Waiting Game_

**-Detective- **

_It can wait__  
>It had waited already<br>I am not ready  
>And that's solely your fault<em>

I trace the patterns running on the spotless ceiling. Lying on a sofa like a corpse. Searching for mental distraction, as the current situation sends my brain high wire. And it has to rest. Storm is coming and it cannot be tired.

"Your psyche has changed." He speaks to me; his words just pass from one ear to the other without an effect. Or I wish. "You're vulnerable now. You're human."

"I am a high functioning sociopath." I correct him.

"You were, five years ago." He corrects me. "Now, brother dear, you're like the others. I am not sure it is safe for you to venture there and -"

"What's the other alternative?" I almost spit, and I am disappointed as it doesn't occur.

"There's no other alternative." He assures me.

"Here's your answer."

We sit in the silence, listening to Mrs Hudson humming in the distance. The situation is so tense, this poor lady is afraid that her vocal would spark an explosion. And I am happy that she doesn't interfere, because that, indeed, would've caused an explosion.

"Sherlock." Mycroft dictates. "When you're getting weaker your enemies are going stronger. Previously we had outsmarted Moriarty- or thought we did- but you were different. Moriarty is furious, and you won't handle the pressure this time."

"I will think of a way." I say casually, wishing I could actually feel that way. "But will you help me?"

"I promise I will." He says truthfully. "But promise, in this time and place, is too weak."

1.2

** Two Hotels at Mayfair **

-Blogger-

I expected everything when climbing up the stairs of 221B; bloodshed, the Queen, Michael Jackson well and alive, yet seeing Mycroft and Sherlock sitting cross legged on ground in front of a board game, didn't surprise me as much. They looked like pair of four year olds, and for a brief moment I had seen them as so.

Mycroft placed another red hotel on one of his squares of Monopoly playing board; he was accompanied by the set of multicoloured banknotes and white estate cards. Sherlock took a metallic figure of a Scottie Dog and placed on the Strand*. (*Funnily enough, Strand is the newspaper agency that published initially Sherlock Holmes stories in 1890's).

"Ha! You're bankrupt." Mycroft cheers, two brothers were so consumed with their play they haven't noticed the newcomer.

"No, if I give you King's Cross Station."

"_Sorry_- you gave it to me last round around" Mycroft sneers.

"Did I? It must've been twenty seconds ago!" Sherlock squirts his nose.

"It was- only thing you have on your soul are the two hotels on Mayfair." Older one points at the last square on the board.

"I won't sell you Mayfair." Sherlock protests.

"Then it is a game over-"

"I never liked this game." The younger one mutters putting the Scottie and Boot* off the board. (*Why is Mycroft an old boot? It is for you to decide).

"Just because you lost-" Mycroft laughs, grasping his umbrella for support; Sherlock gives him a stern look. "No, I dislike it as well- how can one pay for driving licence without having a car?"

"Dreadful game."

"Dire!"

"Let's play it tomorrow" Sherlock turns and almost floods himself with embarrassment upon seeing me. His face turned brick red* and I couldn't help but laugh. (*Tests for Non-Reducing Sugars, also known as Benedict's reagent, turns this colour when positive).

Sherlock throws the board game aside and quickly strolls down to find a comfortable spot in his trademark chair. Mycroft on other hand welcomes me with a great smile and rests on the table.

"So is this the matter of a national importance? You were losing your properties on Monopoly." Sherlock looked at me as if I just have insulted his mother.

"You haven't seen anything." He states when the fury washes down him. "And if you're comparing Professor Moriarty to a Monopoly board game I guess your living days are calculated."

"Moriarty?" Gleeful mood seems to perish as soon as the name is spoken. I try to pull the loose strings together. "Professor?"

"Yes, John, you better sit down- I have a quite lengthy dictum coming." Mycroft stated, and I, with my eyes locked on the official, sat down on my loyal chair next to the kitchen.

Moriarty, the name that haunted every TV screen, billboard, newspaper heading six months ago; the news were hyping about it for three days (almost as long as they did about trial of Justin Bieber). Even when the late-lamented individual is known to be dead for a quite a time, his name still sends chill down my back. The "Miss Me Incident" was considered a bluff and ignored few weeks later- when no attacks or any mysterious precautions took place. Sherlock also seemed to have ignored it, and was happy, as the British government was too terrified to banish their saviour. I also didn't believe that the magpie came from the world of dead, and even considered Mycroft creating entire scenario just to keep his brother intact. I still couldn't believe the thing I had just heard.

"The new killer-firm, La Gazza Ladra, emerged as soon as the entitled consulting criminal perished." Mycroft started.

"Have you said- Killer Firm?" I asked from curiosity.

"Killer Firms-The World Lead companies- Apple, Shell, and Microsoft." To my surprise Sherlock is one replying.

"Ladra grew awkwardly immense- it dominated shares of the top grossing companies; but also quite recently had started developing strong bonds with North Korean border army, created some contacts with NATO and grew unusually loud." Mycroft continued.

"So why I haven't heard about it yet?" I ask. Mrs Hudson, with her shy "Who, ho" entered the room and supported us with steamy tea.

"That's the problem- Ladra doesn't do anything- part from existing."

"So- we are here to know how and why it had become so rich..." I point out, regretting the sip of too-hot tea.

"And loud." Mycroft adds.

I smiled from understanding, but when I thought about it longer my smile washed away.

"But what does that have to do with Moriarty?" I ask. Mycroft raises his eyebrows eagerly; he has been waiting to get started on this aspect.

"The Miss Me broadcast hack came from the source which is the Nerada base. Enigmatically enough, CAM newspaper agency was brought by the same firm hours after-"

"CAM?" I stammer. Charles Augustus Magnussen is too, a closed chapter, the one that we swore to not visit later.

"Yes. We also have CCTV camera snapshots; _those cost us few lives_; that capture exact likeness of our late lamented madman."

"A look alike?" I joke nervously, but neither of brothers shares humour in this situation.

"The most obvious clue- so banal it is omissible- it is the name." Sherlock bends closer; the steam of tea licks his face in frantic fashion. "La Gazza Ladra, the Thieving Magpie."  
>Magpie, such a sharp creature, ranked as the most elegant bird of the Europe; so common we ignore their beauty- the lustrous plumage and the brisk, intelligent eyes. They have this uneasy trait of thieving, craning their necks upon seeing an oddity, vulnerability, something shimmering in the summer light. Moriarty is much the same, a mindless creature in the charlatan of man, peeking for distractions and dancing lights. Sherlock must be like a rare jewel in the Kings Old Crown, shredding the spectrum of colours across the nations, summoning the pickiest of birds.<p>

"You said Professor" I point out eagerly.

"Yes- Ladra is ran by a mastermind under the name of Professor, we consider him to be the criminal." Mycroft explains, smiling and setting the empty cup aside.

"Why contacting me, dear Brother?"

"We consulted others- Maria Cossopke, Murray Salvia."

"You haven't been idle." Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.

"Everybody died."

This shook him violently, Sherlock rarely approves of emotions, but this one was so strong it broke his indifferent mask. He put the tea aside and the china banged loudly when colliding with the sauce. Sherlock just cleaned his throat but didn't answer.

"Are you taking the case?" Mycroft asks.

"Yes." Sherlock nods with ease.

"Remember what I have told you." He continues. "World around you changes and you do too, but on the different side of mirror. I think, dear brother, that your time has come."

"A time- time for what?" Sherlock and Mycroft were now inside their own psychological bubble, their eyes focused on each other, unrevealing complex emotions behind layers of cold.

"Time to quit this childish play of a consulting detective," Mycroft says mockingly, but seriously and truthfully. Sherlock opens and closes his mouth wordlessly, visibly hurt. "This game clever people play, brother, you're not longer matching the bill."

"Excuse me- Moriarty is my enemy- it is my song and my puzzle. Who else is there to stop him but me?" Sherlock is rarely driven by emotions.

Mycroft just raises his brolly, nods goodbye to Mrs Hudson and exchanges a handshake with me, with his eyes still locked on the younger, hurt brother. Their relationship is like a complex thread of many colours, wonderful to look at but impossible to replicate or untie.

"I will support you with more information later- get yourself ready- I am waiting for you at Heathrow. We'll be heading to the distant east." Were his last words, then there was silence, and I waited for the sound of closing doors.  
>Sherlock didn't look very talkative, he walked to his room, grasped dusted luggage from the wardrobe and stuffed it with clothes and random apparatuses- pipettes, barometer, rope, cartilages. I observed him, resting my back on the frame of the door.<p>

"You're afraid." I start.

"You should be packing." He said without giving me much thought. He delicately got a hold of the neck of his violin and slipped it in the wooden case.

"Say you are- because you are- and so am I."

"I am not-"he hisses. "What is there to be afraid of?"

I don't answer. He covers the elegant instrument with layer of silk.

"East Wind is going to strike the east itself." I laugh when turning around.

"Expect a Hurricane." He finishes.

**Quite talkative chapter this one? Well. **


	3. 20

** The action will pick up soon, but now we have getting to know who, how, where and such. This chapter is deemed as one of my weakest, but, don't get put aback, everything has to have its weak spot! Alas, fight through this one, and wait till the third one strikes- I think you'll enjoy it.**

** I am not a big fan of Sherlock's Season 3 Psyche, he's human, he's weak. And that's why I am focusing so awfully on this aspect. In this chapter I am throwing away so many clues about the new chapters- wonder if you can pick them up. **

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><p><strong>2.0<strong>**  
><strong>_Lufthansa _**  
>-Blogger-<strong>

My military past reawakened when I found myself crashing the block of pasta into steaming tomato soup. I did not know why traumatic experiences felt like a soothing retrospection. Maybe it is indeed my addiction.

I wonder where Mary is, she told me she has some "unfinished A.G. RA Business" from her past; and it is her book to finish, not mine. We keep in contact, so far nothing enigmatic occurred, and that's good.  
>We found ourselves on the private Lufthansa plane to the South Korea. Its metal casing shone in the rising sun, and the tail of the German air-cutter, coated in gold revealing a silhouette of a bird caught in a peaking flight.<p>

I was stuffed inside a handsome garniture and firepower, simple but professional, was pinned to my belt. There was James Bond themes pounding in the background, it made me feel like a hero of the said film. After all, the thing we are about to do, infiltrating shifty organisation and assassinating mischievous mastermind, sounds like a scenario coming from Goldfinger or The Licence to Kill.

"You're eating that!" Laughed Mycroft upon the arrival, apparently picture of me eating a food-in-a-cup was like a montage from comedy. "What are you doing on the lower levels anyway? Are you a cargo?"

He gestured us upstairs- to my surprise- as I thought it was a single storey plane.  
>The upper dock was lighter and more welcoming. It reminded me much of Magnussen Appledore, with the futuristic interior and holograms that looked like taken out of a sci-fi movie. The tables were decorated with food from all the regions of the world- differing in colours, types and sizes. My quick cup vanished in the bin as I started to pursue delicates displayed- reaching for one seemed sinful for another.<p>

"Advanced." Mutters Sherlock, he didn't spoke for a pretty long while and I almost forgot he was with me all that time.

"South Korean." Mycroft explains, sneakily taking one from the treats. "Comparing to them England is a sinkhole."

At exact eleven the plane set to flight. It climbed over the perfect blue sky, a rarity on the isles.

We sat down on the dual chairs- which seemed to be created just for us- and Mycroft was delivering his speech as if a lecturer does to a class. The hologram display showed something that looked like a blueprint of a building.

"One of our agents managed to whisk inside that organisation." Mycroft begins.

"Suspicious." Cuts Sherlock.

"She supported us with the infrastructure of their headquarters, the building you are to infiltrate." Image tilts and turns to various places. "This is the room in which- we think- Moriarty hides. It is your job- only one- to check for sure if the professor is actually Moriarty- then it remains for us- Sherlock- us, the Common Nation, to decide what to do with him."

"Our job is then to get in, check it, and get out?" I ask.

"Yes- you listen to him Sherlock."

"But how are we to get in?"

"Our agent had given us sufficient amount of information- she's going to open one of the magazine doors tonight, your job is to sneak in through them- CCTV and security has to be your problem to crack." Mycroft penetrated his brother with gaze, while he just stared at the blueprint, memorising all rooms and routes. "Are we clear on that?"

"Crystal." Sherlock mused.

"Remembered the map?"

Sherlock replied with an easy nod and the blue hologram vanished in the thin air. It is just amazing- his brain- ability to remember all those details by just looking. Mycroft and Sherlock now parted the ways, so I guess the talk is over.

The mission seems simple enough, and I didn't feel fear or unease, actually, I had an entire battalion drumming in my mind, a slight tingle of excitement. Something about Sherlock unsettled me, not sure what, maybe the style of speech or gestures, but he wasn't in his best spirits. He's to face his grimmest nightmare, yes, but is there seriously anything this man cannot tackle?

I try to consume my time. I walk on the deck, devouring myself occasionally with treats from the trays and have a weird feeling when walking abroad a moving plane. Sherlock adapts a prayer position in one of the chairs. Mycroft looks calmer than ever, he sips wine in the corner, glaring down at the passing landscape.

I move towards him, and he sees me without raising a glance.

"Britain is flooding- in every sense of that word." Are his words, enigmatic and take me aback. "Soon entire South will have to migrate upwards to a dump called Mane-ches-tarr. BBC already did and is solely regretting this move." He smiles pleasantly under his nose; I leave no comment but just clean my throat.

"Is it nice?" He asks after a moment of silence.

"Is what nice?" I ask.

"The sea? Do you find it affable? Pleasing for the eye or something." he specifies.  
>I look outside; the plane is now crossing a point in which the sea breaks the land, judging by the white stripe running down coast we are moving above the cliffs of Dover. I had seen the cliffs in my childhood, but found them eerie and dire, plain and cold. From height it is not much to be seen- it is like a Google Maps shot. Personally I prefer Cornish coasts, with their azure water and the Jurassic rocks that climb out of the raving waves like teethes of an enormous beasts.<p>

"They look fine." I come up with conclusion, realising that I am too deeply lost in thought.

"Are they? For me it is just chalk facade that creates narrowest point of the English Channel measuring 31 kilometres form point of Strait Dover, a set of numbers and data. Concept of beauty is just a brain illusion we shouldn't be blinded by." He states plainly, flashing me a smile.

"Why a tuxedo?" I ask, relating to my formal wear.

"Form of an unconscious obedience, people seems to conform to people in black and white, or so they say." He smiles again, then looks at his brother who's lazinly playing with kitchen knife on the table. "Now if you will excuse us-Sherlock! - we are to have a one to one conservation." He calls out, heading to a much smaller pilot room. I am surprised by the abrupt shift of the mood.

"Are you coming?" I ask the called.

"Yes." He shouts before running inside the pilot room, and doors behind him seal shut.

**2.1  
><strong>_About tears and graves_**  
>-Detective-<strong>

I was dying to shout at him. As soon as the hatch doors close I am not keen on dropping a word.

"What daft plan is that? Really, brother you worked yourself out!" I even manage to utter a laugh. "A Lone infiltrator, that childish replica of a blueprint- oh, please! Information you gave me is falsified!"

He is not responding, the cold mask is still drawn on his features- is this because he hides his shame, or because he knows?

"I know." Latter then. "Julia Orwell, one of our infiltrators, had surely been executed or had gone through the change of heart. I hope for the first one. We are being constantly supplied by the falsified information, and I knew you'll notice. Moriarty knows you're after him and sets a trap."

"So-" I raise my eyebrows.

"Your jobs to fall into that trap." He completes, there is an uneasy silence between us. Moriarty knows, he is prepared to get to me and states so openly, which makes him just more dangerous. I clean my throat.

"The move we are to take is surely dangerous and even for me- unpredictable." Mycroft breathes out. "But Moriarty made it perfectly clear- he won't face anyone, but you."  
>Mycroft had sent so many agents, good agents, the ones I knew and had chance of meeting. The ones with oil in the head and some future, and what had happened to them- crushed under Moriarty's pressure like coke cans.<p>

"It is rather unfortunate, and clever of him, to be aiming solely at you." Mycroft continues. "You are very influential and -mind me- weak."

I blink few times.

"I can handle this." I say, I know I can, but I am not sure if I can succeed. Moriarty tricked us once- and we even now don't know how he did it- he can trick us again, but the consequences can be global. Mycroft is silent, but I can hear building up fury. Why fury?  
>"Are you stupid enough to not see that the emotions are controlling you?" He spits out. "You are following your heart and switching your brain off- sorry, little brother- but those little mistakes cost lives and our country."<p>

I am taken aback.

"I am not!" This sounded so childish, I felt like a five year old and Mycroft is the BIG, big brother.

"You said that the love is the greatest disadvantage, you said that emotions should not control your head. Your words, to which I agree, juxtaposed!"

I just stare at him- consuming it all in. It's all false, it's all not true. I want to shout, slam this heavy frame of his to the opposing wall, but why would I, if the thing he says is true? I will go into fire, I will even start a fire when somebody does harm people close to me, but I do it with satisfaction that they will do the same to me. My attachment towards John is indescribable, he's the one that broke the barrier I didn't knew that I had. He opened my eyes to a better world. Problem is I cannot close them. We have a pact and a promise, mutual and mute. He protects me, and I protect me. Anything else is unthinkable. And that's how it was and will remain.

"It's not all about that- imagine you die." I start and that pushes Mycroft into shock, as he expected me to remain speechless. "Who's going to stand above your grave- actually grieving and caring- mother, father and me, but for that I am not even sure. Who's going to mention you when you're gone? No one! It's about this that I have people- people that care and would care- as long as I do same to them."

I wanted him to be influence by those words, but he laughs, plainly and openly, and it hurts me more than anything else. And I don't know why.

"You think they care?" He says between laughs.

"I know." I correct him.

"You think it's all about love and affection, and tears and the graves? Ha!" His tone shifts from gleeful to serious and cold in milliseconds. "You have a brain and a talent; don't waste it on people who cannot even look up your pedestal. Now focus."  
>And those were the last words he said. I grit my fingernails into the palms and my teeth trembled under the pressure. With one measured blow I send my fist flying at the stationary relative. The velocity and strength aiming for his crooked nose, but when it is about to collide he blocks it with a lazy swing of his arm.<br>The impact is enormous on my body- I felt like punching a stone. He stays there unmoving, releasing my arm from his grasp and uttering "Brother" leaving me slouched and aching.

Hatch opened and I hoped everything was over, but actually _everything was about to begin. _


	4. 30

** This is, by far, my favourite collection of perspectives. I leave this to your judgement. **

3.1

_City of Neon Lights_  
><strong>-Blogger-<strong>

Shimmering surface of river Han faintly reflected the dancing lights of the living city. I felt like a stranger in the alien world when trudging through the crowded streets of South Korean Capital. Unknown symbols either rising upwards in positive green, or dashing down boards in alarming red, flashing images of products, firms, moulding and joining together in erratic fashion; I felt as if being enclosed in a spiralling kaleidoscope.

I felt uneasy in this outlandish environment, which reminded me of an advanced science fiction movie. I was gazing stupidly at people with hair in weird colours, in weird positions, arching to varying directions; their clothes equally as quizzing, from dark garnitures to shocking yellows, reds and blues. Everyone here was chatting in foreign language, through phones, Bluetooth or transmitters on the ears. Streets with neon lights, futuristic cars surely not from Europe. I was intrigued and scared at the same time- is this happening on the planet I was born- how come I had never known?

I was genuinely surprised at the response created by Sherlock towards this environment. He had shown minimal interest towards the eccentricities around him, and he wasn't indifferent, he was in another world, his world, somewhere beyond realms of my imagining. Neon lights and flashing images scan through his azure without much effect, with this unmoving gaze he reminds me of a shark. Concentrated and consumed in his aim, seemingly dormant, but calculative under the innocent mask, ready to strike, crush and kill as soon as the smell of blood goes down his nostrils.

"What are we doing here?" I ask him. He has to shake himself out of the trance to answer me.

"We are going to finish the unfinished business." Sherlock states, although his voice lacks any emotions; I can sense unsure turbulence and fear.

"I don't like it."

"It is necessary." He responds. "It's like playing a game with the devil, and you know that he had biased the dice."

Sherlock takes an unsure breathe in and we step onto the pedestal, the first level of hell. The Limbo.

**3.2**

_ Devil was waiting _

**-Detective- **

Ladra companies held their base in new, innovative structure; made out of abstract shapes and clad with glass that reflected vivid colours of the outside world.  
>Its logo shone in the puddles, the shimmering image of a magpie holding a royal crown in its beak.<p>

Just by looking at the structure of the building I knew that the blueprints shown on the plane were a fakery, they simply didn't match the overlay. Like had Moriarty suggested to us, we headed down the cargo dispatch site, the magazine doors were open and welcoming.

"There are the doors." John says hopefully as we spy the environment from the shady corners. He doesn't know that he's going into a trap; he still thinks it is just a spot check mission. I think that's good, he won't panic if anything goes wrong, and neither should I.  
>Only thing that distanced us from the entrance were the barbed wires set on a high fence.<br>Such a simple, yet effective protection, but I know that Moriarty wants us inside- that means there has to be a weak spot in the fence we could- here it is!

"John" I whisper, even when it is not required. The fence was clumsily forced open, area around it smelled of a female perfume- Moriarty's agent, unimportant. We carefully whisked inside, and then in a dynamic trot ran towards the opened magazine doors. Low, cold drizzle sprayed our heads and made our hair cling to our foreheads.

John took the gun out and clicked it ready- I should do too, but I don't think it is as required, especially when John is already handling that job.

I curse my vision when we get inside, my eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness yet, and it would require them quite a time to do so, due to the prolonged exposure to the neon glowing in the city.

Corridor we walk in is hollow, and metallic thuds of our footsteps echo loudly making me feel slightly claustrophobic. We're in a trap after all; Moriarty enclosed the rope around us, now we have to wait.

It is icy here; colder than the outside- are we near some sort of refrigerator- why would he need one? Steam comes out of our mouths like out of a locomotive, and my skin gained another hue of white.

"Do you feel cold?" Asks John, he's ten steps behind me.

"Very." I comment.

"A Cooling system?" He suggests.

"Possibly." Why haven't I thought about this before? But for what he would need a cooling system? Large amounts of energy? A thermal reaction?

I hear a hissing sound of closing doors- now our only escape route is sealed. _The game begins._

Corners of the rectangular corridors illuminate with orange light, I feel like abroad of a futuristic spaceship; soft humming coming from the walls, pecks of steam escaping occasionally from the pipes, and swings of the temperature contributed to that. It's a quite interesting and inspirational environment; the problem is we aren't on our own.  
>Noise, two, distinctive and male, they speak English but it is heavily accented. <em>Two individuals of varying ethnicities with knowledge of English:<em> I store this information into a freshly created shelf.

"Hear it?" John gasps; his sense of sound is weaker than mine. I shush him with a gesture, he obeys immediately.

To our sight comes an outline of two bulky men, we have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, which piles up nicely, as we don't plan either.

I scan the environment, it reminded me of London's homeless spots, but this one bathed in murky darkness, highlighting objects in toxic orange, an advantage for us.

There was empty glass of liquor, rolling on the floor, with cracked, ragged edges; ideal for a weapon in a scenario I am considering; a newspaper, yellowed by age; set of plastic bags and bottles, empty and scrubbed of food. It'll be quicker and more efficient to use that bottle rather than a gun. And there's still a knife in my pocket, just in case, the one I had whisked from that plane. Two men moved down, their heavy footsteps made stationary corridor almost bouncing.

Rough faces turn around; they know we are here and they know we are going to put on a fight, not as enormous idiots I had expected. I could hear low sound of a cocking gun, could smell their alcoholic breath, and could feel the warmth of their skin.

"Sherlock." Whimper.

Then the hell broke out. Two chunks of meat lured at us, grasped by collars and threw into the air as if we were rag-dolls. My weapon, the knife, spun out of grasp and cluttered on the floor. I swung my arm, aiming for the face, but the drunk was more conscious that I thought and ducked, throwing punch in my jaw along the way.

I staggered backwards, pulsing pain shivering down my body. Then another hit came, straight at the face, flooding my vision with abstract colours.

My eyes sealed shut from pain, couldn't forecast next collision. This time my abdomen received a punch and I found myself falling down.

My body slammed on the ground and mouth hit the ragged edge of forgotten spirit bottle. Glass like scalpel cut inside cracked lips.

I could hear John screaming, but it was cut short, and replaced with terrified gurgling sounds.

"John." I whisper, blood invades my mouth. Cold metal, shape I could recognise anywhere caught by grasp, and seemed to fuel me up with additional pang of energy.

I was already up, poised to strike. John caught by neck, swung his arms crazily and like fish opened and closed the gob to catch at least a bit of the air.  
>They were distracted by his suffocation, and were too slow to turn and see me lure with dagger at their back.<p>

Blood, red as hell comes only out when I withdraw the blade. I catch John by skim of his vest and push away. When the second attacker lures I just swing the bottle from the ground and smash it on his face.

He falls down howling in pain; there's a number tattooed on his neck, it gives me an incentive to finish him off. With calculated kick I crack his head, the lifeless body clatters on the floor.

John holds finger above the trigger, he looks around but shouts and movement had already quietened.

"Did you just?" He asks me pointing at the now-corpse.

"Yes." I grasp the knife from the floor and clean it from the blood on clothes of the wounded one.

"May I-" John kneels towards the living attacker, as if attempting to heal him. My body is still rocketing with adrenaline and I am barely catching my words.

"Don't mind him-" I try to say. "They were all signed for an execution in China."  
>Less madmen the better, they were ordered for death anyway. I look at John for indication of how should I react. He looks mixed, but neither sad nor happy, I guess he was used now to the death.<p>

We exchange brief looks-waiting won't get us anywhere, time to move on. And as if on command we ran.

**3.3 **

_Element Water_

**-Blogger-**

**This moment, this time. **

Heart was pounding a battle march and adrenaline was thick in my blood. I was in my spirit, in my environment. Conflict was thick in the air and the time was ticking away. Sherlock knows where we are going- he has the entire map memorised- so I am left to not interrupt and follow.

We stop arrantly when being welcomed by a cold, metallic wall; the dead end. Doors behind us seal shut with a thud. I set my gun aside and look around. We are enclosed in an empty rectangle- nothing below and around us, above set of crates. I try to put some pressure on the further wall, searching for a secret entry or sealed set of doors, but it happens to be just a wall.

"Sherlock," I sigh with frustration and look at my comrade, who's now evaluating the trap carefully.

"It's a water tank!" He cries. A water tank, but where's the glass, and aren't those supposed to be filled with water.

"Jesus Christ." It is going to be filled with water, with us, God, that's not good, God that's awful. As if on command a low, slashing voice surround us- I took my time searching for a source, it came for something that looked like air vents.

"What is that noise?" I ask Sherlock, who's now thinking so sternly you can about hear it. Does he know that the water is coming? "Have you heard that noise?"

He's consumed in his thoughts, spinning around and mumbling gibberish under his nose. Water starts to pour out the vents, a puddle enlarges and I try to get away from it as if it was lethal lava. It is hard to do so, as after few seconds' entire room is in centimetres of water. I mutter Sherlock's name, but he's still wandering somewhere else. He's torn between bewilderment and fright, but I cannot be so certain in such faint light. I wonder how he does all this deducing- is there a set of magic, white letters collecting in his vision? I seriously don't care now, the water is over my waist level and Sherlock barely speaks, anytime soon I will have to swim to keep afloat.

I try my best not to panic; I am here with Sherlock, he knows what's going on, and I guess he'll react in last minute as he usually does so. It is irking, but I guess I am now used to it. Water is high now, almost as high as some of the Deep Ends in the children swimming pools. My companion finally breaks the silence with a set of uncontrollable laughter! This means one thing- he knows, he has a plan!

"Sherlock, stop playing those games!" I shriek irritated, the water is now occasionally attacking my gut, I won't stand here longer.

"John." He mutters surely, determination and clarity, he'll keep cold blooded during this mission- he won't show Moriarty he's a weakling, because I know he isn't. And it is just a spot check mission, no one is planning to face us, no one is expecting us to be here- so whatever the problem is- it is easy to crack. I guess it is so straight forward I could've solved it if I put my mind to it.

"I know what I am doing!" He states to me when our heads start to bang at creates above us. I know that he knows because he knows everything; but I am followed with silence, and this is slightly worrying.

"And that is?" I ask him. Water is so high now we'll be running out of air soon- I hope he stops showing off anytime soon.

"It's just a hallucinogen- We have been drugged- try to relax- when it washes down we are going to be safe and back in Mycroft's. Trust me." He says. It all makes sense- like the Baskerville case-we must've caught it from those mysterious leaks in the pipes. Nothing of it is real- it's just an illusion. Maybe that's why I am not worried as much. Does that mean that Sherlock is illusion as well?

"Are you real?" I want to ask him- but that sounded too cheesy- so I just mouthed the words out.

The water now climbs above us- it feels awfully real- we even get tricked to grasp for air between the crates. I have enough of it, this nightmare will finish as soon as I will accept it- so I just open mouth and wait for it to wash down. The problem is that it doesn't fade- it feels real- it is real.

I am drowning. I am dying.

**And now, we are at the starting point. **


	5. 40

** Declaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock; idea of Sherlock was conceived when Steven and Mark were returning from Doctor Who set in a train; idea for this story occured to me when I was in travel too! But, alas, it was neither a train, and neither t returning from a set of legendary sci-fi show. Some people will just remain more awesome than I, but hey! Another chapter. **

**I just came to realise, all great authors come to great ideas when being in a train! Rowling, Moffat, Larkin... This means one thing: I need to travel on a train more. **

* * *

><p><strong>4.1<strong>

_ White Suit, White Rose_

**-Detective- **

I cannot dismiss the possibility of death. Every aspect seems to contribute to this statement, especially the fact that I drowned few hours ago. And maybe the white toga that is there instead of former clothes, or the painfully white environment set to look like a Roman Empire, with its pillars and architecture.

I try to focus on things that I know- which, in this case, is not much.  
>I feel cold. That's all I can think of, that's all I know for sure.<p>

Is that how normal people feel? That must be so frustrating.  
><em> John!<em> I realise and scan the environment around me- but there's nothing worth noting, just colour white, lots and lots of it.

I am about to shriek from aggravation but something catches my interest. Music: Crisp and sharp, classical, an overtone played on piano. I know that tune, but I cannot focus enough to retain information of who composed this piece. I forgot... how is that even possible?

I walk quickly towards the sound of the composition- which was now climbing in crescendo, almost reflecting the erratic movement of my heart.

I will face my enemy in a minute, and I don't have a power or plan to so, still, there's not much to lose. Better to get straight to the business.

The hallway seems to stretch into eternity, and frustration in me is building: I know nothing, I am not ready, and I struggle with a basic trifle, which is the classical piece done on piano. I even made cover of it on my violin. Why can I remember that, but not the title?

I am barefoot; the floor is achingly cold against my skin. Why do I realise such obvious things with a delay?

I try to think, but all the rooms in my head are locked. _Think, focus, now_.  
>I concentrate on the music- I know the notes, I almost have them sketched out in my head on the paper. I know how the melody looks and sounds, but name of it is hazy. That was most irking fact. It's not music to be played on a piano, I realise; it is a piece originated to suit the violin family. It's a piano variation. No, no, the other way round. Devastating slash of white pain went down my head and I hissed from ache.<p>

I feel dizzy and realise with a setback that I am sloping to the side, there's food building up my throat too- why did I even ate on that plane? I shook my body violently to get some sense of stability, but that just trips me to the other side and brings up nausea.

Finally to my sight comes the player; it is a small figure, with black polished hair, wearing ghostly white garniture and pants.

As I ascend, sloppily and loudly, he stops the play for a while, church-like silence fills the hallway. I stop momentarily too, then, with an additional jolt, continued the trudge, and so he continued the play.

I realised that there are guards jotted around the corners, their white clothes blurred with the environment. Moriarty is sitting by the piano, playing it tenderly and professionally. He is still is lost in a tune when I ask.

"_Professor_?" My vocal was awful, more like yelp of a dying animal than a question.

"I am a mathematician, quite prestigious one too," stated a distinctive voice with elongated vowels and unmistakable Irish accent; he did not give me a glance. His fingers still danced above the white-and-white of the stylish instrument.

"Not my field." I breathe out with exhaustion.

"But your mothers, we competed for an award at The Royal Society, over our binary journals; they were both very good, mind you. I was offered a sit at a University for one. Dismissed it of course; I am made- for- let's say- bigger things."

He finishes off the nocturne; it rises to a crescendo before being cut short.

"I expected something better." He changes the topic, his voice was now enlarged by the silence, and ghost of the music echoed through the corridors. "And look you now, fighting with your own weight!"

"How did you do it?" I asked him, my voice was slurred, or my hearing was, or both. I realised that my question lacked clarity. "How did you fake the fall?"

"Oi, dear you, just a little poke of a finger will send you flying to the floor." He turns around from the piano and glares at me. His face had not a scratch and barely changed since our initial meeting at the swimming pool, part from swelling and fresh wound on his chin.

"The fall!" I roar, but that sounds comical rather than aggressive. He laughs silently.

"Wait till the drug washes down." he says, rising up. "I will not complicate your tired head. You're slightly drugged. Have you realised? Your body accepts those things like hell. Chlordiazepoxide slows the brain down, the dose will kill a normal person, but I see you're handling it rather well."

He smiles, it sparks hellfire in my organs. Consulting Criminal is now meters away from me- I try to deduce things from his clothes- but only blurred words pop in my vision, frustrating me further.

"You've been loud lately, not for very good reasons, tut." He's close enough for me to punch him, but I won't risk it, even when it would give me satisfaction. "And clumsy, oh you were awfully- awfully- jickers; Fallen into my trap like a flea does. Time spoils you!"

He circulates around me like an osprey circles around his prey.

"How do you know I am not planning anything?" I slur out. Wave of headache splinters my head and I gasp through the gritted teeth.

"Planning? I can take you down with a poke!" He laughs. "Would you like me to try?"

I breathe out heavily but try to keep upright. I notice that there's a white flower pinned to his folded collar. I cannot recognise it, or smell it, maybe because it is a fake. He speaks something but it blurs together like a crashed tape.

"Where's John?" I utter, saliva collects in my gob and spills on the floor and my bare feet. I must look awful.

"Finally you asked! I thought it would be your first question- but isn't!" He finds it very interesting and amusing apparently, his walking patterns quickened and become hungrier and eager.

"Is he- he- is he" I stammer, _Alive_? "Safe?"

Moriarty's eyes change into round O's. "Neither."

I grit my fingers and plan to lunge at him; my expression must be radical, because he laughs like a maniac. With a single poke on a forehead he brings my body spiralling down on the floor. I clattered down like a matchstick man and don't have will or power to get up. He kneeled and jerked my head upwards so that cold blue could stare straight into the dark black.

"Don't worry about your pet- he put up a decent fight, even gave me an aw-ah on the chin... he's scraping state of living by millimetres, and he's anything but safe. No, no, no, don't strain yourself. You'll be seeing him soon." I answer to this with distraught grunt. Most problematic aspect is that I don't care- I cannot bring myself to do so. I can get up, I can push my body to limits, but I don't want to. It has to be job of this drug, whatever it does.

I feel like on _John's Stag Do_, but the stakes are much higher and being barely conscious doesn't just mean that the case of ghost romance will be delayed.

I want to think- I- _how did we get out of the_- I- my brain is slipping, slipping. I cannot- connect- thoughts. Sick- so sick- I - sleep. Need it.

Uncontrollable groan escapes my mouth and I just feel that my body temperature is rocketing down. Another set of meaningless sounds leaks from my mouth. Moriarty moves his hand over my hair, or face, or - sick- so sick. Don't touch me- stop it- I am falling. Falling down- no, asleep- the ground- is it?

"Shush, sleep now, dear." Someone speaks. I think its The Woman. No- it is that- man. That cabbie- Moriartyyy! Is that-?

"You'll see your friend soon."

I don't- John- have- John- any. Slipping, down, slope, sleep, now, finally, dark.

It was a rose. The piece was Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor _"Quasi una fantasia". _

* * *

><p><strong>Enjoying the chapter? I hope so! You do wait for the other one, while I re-watch Ben counting apples and oranges in Sesame Street. Will take a while. <strong>


	6. 50

** I come to serve my people- here you go- thy food!**

* * *

><p><strong>5.1<strong>  
><em>The Cool down<em>  
><strong>-Blogger-<strong>

Everything, but the great aquarium. I expected to appear anywhere- a torture room, dungeon, I don't know, maybe even asylum; but when the henchmen threw me into a room that looked like a big aquarium I was nothing but shocked.

Everything matches the element of water, I think, maybe he'll torture us going down other three elements. Last would be fire.  
>I look around the setting- my body is still foggy after the drowning incident and waves of aftershock still ripple my body. My arm is sore, but it is a good pain, it was done on purpose- the punch in the chin- I hope I had displaced his jaw.<p>

The room I am in looks like a tunnel in London Aquarium. Walls around me are casted by an enormous tank, set to replicate a coral reef. I would've appreciated its beauty if not the current circumstances.  
>I am not a marine zoologist, but I recognise some of the fishes in the tank- lion, tang, surgeon, dog shark, stone, puffer. None of which could be considered lethal. I consider water environment distant: Water and Land are separated for a reason. We Earthen aren't good enough to compete with world that isn't ours.<p>

I sat down and waited for adrenaline inside me to sluice, and it did so slowly but surely.

Sherlock must be held captive too, maybe he's putting up a fight, or maybe he's already running to save me. Momentarily I feel like a damsel in distress, and that flushes me with embarrassment.

He lied to me, I realised, we haven't been drugged and somebody had expected us. It's not the first time he had done that, but that won't excuse me to keep my anger.

Would it really scar him to say that _he doesn't know_? Would've saved us so much time and trouble, _but no_, his pride has to be a priority. Sherlock treats his intelligence like a vanity; flashes it in front of everybody and that gets him in a crowd he doesn't want to mix with. He's like an intellectual slut, and I don't feel unpleasant when thinking about him this way.

Wondering about the man won't get me out of this prison; I try to think and use skills of deduction, which I often wrote about but rarely applied, to come up with some valuable directives.

Such an enormous, tropical tank requires lots of heed; it doesn't have any vile attributes, so it must be only here for recreation. To maintain such high temperature heaps of money and energy has to be wasted- would explain the vast cooling system; now I have _how,_ and I am left to wonder _why_. Moriarty doesn't look like a person who loves fish and would spend fortune for them- it has to have an application, and knowing the person, I don't think it is as rainbow coloured as the reef.

**5.2  
><strong>_ Cold Fury_**  
>-Detective-<strong>

_ System Reload.  
>Security' AK300.<br>Ready to Activate_

I breathed out with exhaustion. Each movement felt like a prickle with a needle, but at least the control over my brain has returned to normality. I am still under control of some mycotoxin, but at least neurotoxins had been digested, leaving a permanent scar on my brain tissue. I want to groan from relaxation, but every movement hurts.

And punch in the face is like a pierce with a red-hot metal rod. Another blow is equally as aching and I shriek out of top of my lungs. I will recognise this pattern of fingers everywhere, and that style of fight, it is John.

Kick comes to abdomen, and I feel my internal organs screaming with pain. I cannot describe it, the pain, I wanted to die rather to continue to be in such state; but I allow him to demolish me, I deserve it.

"Stop it, John." I whisper, even voice irritates my wind pipe.

"What else is there I don't know?" His voice is weirdly muffled and sends my ears bleeding.

"It was our plan to fall into Moriarty's trap." I explain between breaking breaths.

"Our?" John demands; at least he is not kicking or punching me.

"Mycroft." His name is heavy and leaves awful aftertaste.

"Moriarty had set up a trap, and we went straight to it?" He explains to himself. "Why would we do that?"

"It's an only way-" I breathe out, "To face him."

There's silence. I can hear sound of movement and water, blurred by a glass wall that has to be at least ten centimetres thick. We're in aquarium- yes; the steam and temperature would explain that- a big aquarium.

I open my eyes and azure sends daggers at my eyes, I close them immediately, but at least I know that my deduction is correct and brain is working normally.

"Do you retain information of the whole thing?" John asks, his voice is tender and has a fatherly undertone. It makes me feel weak, but protected.

"I hope I do- the water tank." I count out. Talking hurts, but I don't want to be helpless on the floor, with that saint, white toga.

"I do remember it- maybe differently to you- but yes, anything after?" He continues.

"White hall," I gasp, the memory is obscure and I try to unproductively go back over it in my remembrance. "He was there."

"He?" John sounds engrossed.

"Moriarty... He was playing piano. I was drugged, sorry; I don't know where the hall is." I gasp out. We are in a building I have no memory of- would be dangerous, as enemy knows perfectly where he is or is going. We are like a blind trying to fight a hawk-eyed.

"I was conscious when they fished me out- I silenced him with a punch- but then they slammed me out." He says, not contributing a large amount to my information collective.

Now- we are at the point Mycroft sought us to be- surrounded by Moriarty.

Our moves have to be deliberate, shredding a bullet through his skull won't do the justice- he surely has an afterlife ace hidden up his sleeve. We have to unwind his doings and understand motives; then we would take an appropriate, legal approach.

"Whatever you want to do, John; don't kill him." I say to him. My eyes are still closed but I sense his presence to my right- this heavy, rasping breathing.

"What do you mean?" He asks, but I don't answer, this concept is too hard for him to understand.

MR. HOLMES THIRD EXPECTED ON THE DECK.

Booms a female voice from the unseen transmitters; "The Third", I note, that means they know about "The Other One", the one we chose to not talk about. "Expected", not awaited or accepted, it sounds like a patient is being called out for an operation; "The Deck", upper level of a ship; very handy, especially if we are to uncover the layout of this building.

Standing up feels like electrocution, but Moriarty is a person that shouldn't be kept waiting. John asks his usual "What/How/Why/Where". I am not sure how to respond to them, so I just remain soundless.

"Don't say you are going to him!" John cries, his eyes striped by the water reflections, and tired eyes enhanced by additional hue of blue.

"What else is there to do?" I say with tired breaks for breaths.

"In such state!" He supports me with his shoulder, but this sends additional spasm of pain rather than comfort. I want to push him away, but decide not to.

Hatch door slid open, revealing an elongated corridor- my green mile. We both go towards the exit when an alarm blares.

MR. HOLMES THE THIRD EXPECTED ON THE DECK

Female recording instructs.

"I think he just means me." I state, John lets me go with fear drawn on every inch of his face.

"Are you serious? I will, we will figure-" his eyes dart all over the place.

"John, it is fine." I assure him. "We'll be joining together shortly- or I hope so."  
>He looks at me for a while.<p>

MR. HOLMES THE THIRD EXPECTED ON THE DECK

"Be careful." He finally says, I wave him off with a dismissive nod. "Wait!" He halts before I cross the line. "How am I supposed to distinguish between a reality and illusion?"

"Well, we are tackling Moriarty- reality would surely be vivid, and crazy. Illusion is only when things seem too easy." He considers those lines for a while. And when he looks away, it is when I slip off.

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><p><strong>Have a merry Winter Olympics everyone!<strong>

** This story relfetcs similar mood- it is cold, considers of varied games; losers and winners; but slightly more vile. **

** Next chapter, is- quite different-.**

** You'll see.**

** Now. I guess the situation is biased and our heroes don't stand a chance against this villian; still, I am DYING to hear your fan-speculations regarding their merry escape- if it would be merry that is. **


	7. 60

**Sorry for slight delay. We're back! Now the stories are beta read with Kanamine97 on Google Doc sections; in which we have more fun than serious work :0 **

** This chapter is ... flashback-y.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>6.1<strong>_

Calculating Machine

_**-Detective- **_

I walked down the corridor like a prisoner that awaited an execution. The voice on the tape played here on repeat, and it send me back to some undefined memory. From past; from youth:

I think I was five at that time; Mycroft was eleven, and I remember that he had an army of freckles running down his nose and cheeks, I commit to the memory of pointing them out and laughing; I remember him scowling and pushing my eager hand away. He was there too- the other one- but I erased him, he was now nonexistent. Closed chapter, forbidden in metaphorical fire.

Our mother was there too. She held us by hands and we walked to a freshly opened compound that smelled of wet paint and mowed grass. The sliding doors opened as we ascended an environment, which looked like hospital, welcomed our eyes.

It wasn't exactly a hospital, but ST. DYMPHNA HOSPICE FOR MENTAL HEALTH, or that was what read the golden lettering.

It was a peculiar place, filled with weird people. Many of the children there had distorted, round faces; some men acted like kids or had irises of the size of a sand rock. My brain didn't know how to approach them- like people like of their age; like people they act like; or maybe something different altogether.

I clutched my mother stronger and tried to not make an eye contact or stand as a highlight. Mycroft had too disgust drawn on his face.

"I thought we were going to a place with greater quotient of intelligence."

He says sounding noble, really meaning "why are we entering the house of madmen."

"Now, now, those people are as good as you or even better." My mother told him and he responded with something grim but inaudible.

There's a minimal difference between them and us, we are both born with a missing chromosome or a slight glitch in the development. Everything is random and coincidental- maybe instead of missing part of the brain I would come to this earth without an arm or a protein code. It is not my fault that I am the way I am, and it is not the fault of the others for being the way that they are. I could've been on the place of this weirdly formed boy on the wheelchair, but my microscopic fibres chose to turn micro-millimetres differently.

We sat in a waiting room that was partially empty apart from a girl with goggled-eyes and thick meeting was at ten, but my mother was rather precarious and arrived half an hour early. My legs were swinging to the ticking of the clock, and eyes darted from one corner to another in search of a decent distraction.

"This will be your home when you grow up." Mycroft bowed his head towards my ear and whispered a taunt cautiously.

"Shut up!" I screamed, and that send this waiting girl into a tantrum . I couldn't bear the noise and the delay and the continuous tick-tock, so I leaped onto him and planted some punches, just to kill time and anger. My mother pushed me away with struggle and helped Mycroft get onto his feet. He was imitating crying and ache; and I just laughed from his foolish attempts of dragging attention.

"See it is JUST a place for you!" He roars. And I stick my tongue out.

Just in time the doors opened and friendly, spectacled face peeked out. Doctor McDonald, the label said.

"Is Mike and William ready?"She asked; her voice was heavily accented, but light and welcoming.

"Mycroft!""Sherlock!" We corrected her in unison.

She flashed us a smile and welcomed us to the patients room. It is small and cramped; wilted flower inhabits the deserted windowsill and aggressive posters of skin diseases, teeth problems and devastated lungs haunt the sterile walls.

"So, Duo Holmes," She says, the nicety wasn't forced; it is natural; maybe because she had a fresh, shiny engagement ring with many carat diamond decorating her finger. McDonald faced our mother as she placed us on chairs.

"MRI scans results?"

"Ah,Yes-" Our mother replies, I must've been very fidgety, as she held me tightly by shoulders.

"Before we Reach to any conclusions…. - boys, would you mind completing a test or two?" Doctor asks, opening a program on the long, white personal computer.

I liked tests,they were the only thing that really reflects my superiority, so I nodded, thrilled. She smiled and directed me to the PC.

"The questions will pop up on the screen. When you see them, answer them okay..?" She explained me while my fingers twitched with anticipation. Shortly after series of various questions came up- they were tedious and repetitive, but I knew answers to all so I contributed, eager to see a positive result. It asked me to calculate number of limbs, find missing parts of a pattern or match shapes, all of those elementaries contributed to a grin throughout the few minute courses.

When I finished, the screen went blank and Mycroft was asked to complete the test too; he finished it quicker than I by something like half my time, and he too, had an enormous smile drawn on every inch of his spotted face, maybe he was satisfied by his finishing time.

Doctor McDonald printed the results, and they came out like a shopping paragon. Her eyes widened upon seeing the grades and that caused my mother to rise.

"What's wrong?" She asked, but Doctor McDonald placed the strip away and ducked inside piles of her notes. I was slightly worried, but also had this pang of excitement.

"I see… " she smiled gleefully and continued. "One final test for you Sherlock"; I was glad as she didn't call me William or Mr. Holmes, for which am I frequently mistaken. She pulled out a series of pictures from the pile, which consisted of three circles; each had a pair of dots and differing line below: one was curved upwards; another downwards, third one was static.

"Can you point out which one is smiling, Sherlock?" Doctor McDonald asked.

I laughed nervously, this question lacked a clarity or sense. It had to be a trick question, and I admit…,it was a rather good one. None of the circles conveyed an emotion- they were just circles!

I pushed my fingernails deeper into my skin and tried to concentrate. Maybe each gesture had a hidden message in it?

"You can guess, if you'd like that is..." She encourages me when seconds tick by; but guessing is sinful, better to be answer less than wrong.

"I don't know, Doctor McDonald." I said pushing away; because I was indeed, baffled.

"Won't you guess?"

"I won't risk it." I assure; how did the line contributed to an emotion? It's stupid!

Doctor withdrew the paper and darted her sight from our mother to us repetitively, then took a deep breath in and faced my mother.

"Is it alright for me to-" The medic stammered.

"Yes sure." Mother agreed, slightly jaded.

"In front of them?" Doctor McDonald takes an uneasy breath in, and then she reveals the results to my mother.

"Their collective IQ is higher than double of yours and mine." She says with slight giggle. "230; highest than Einstein's or Darwin's; it is not unusual; we had one of those similar little prodigies here yesterday. Those are usually shipped to NASA or CERN; they call them the living calculators."

She turned the blinds down and turned on an illuminated board- it showed three cross sections of brains, all varied in size and highlights that were dotted on the organs.

"This." She points at the smallest picture- "Is a regular brain. This-" she points at the rest two. "Are Sherlock's and Mycroft's; slightly larger, due to their elongated skulls; most enigmatic fact is that they have Limbic System in brain of reduced size, it is responsible for emotions; its grey matter seemed to mould to the hippocampus slightly higher, the part responsible for memory and decoding."

We looked at her without speaking, I feel slightly dizzy thinking about my head.

This explained a lot, that's why I never understood other children; because fluids in my head accidentally flushed themselves upwards and frained one of the containers.

"This case is seen professionally as a psychopathic brain." Doctor explained. "Resulting in inability to follow social norms, react to emotion; and have fluctuating IQ."

My mother opened her mouth to correct her. "My children aren't psychopaths."

"I know- please- miss- let me explain." She hesitated. "Psychopaths are usually misjudged, all prestigious authors, inventors, businessmen or scientists have similarly set brain. Instead of emotions they can plot data, facts and figures. Yes, if a psychopathic child is let alone or put under a bad influence- it would turn him into a serial killer; but mrs;I can see that you are in fact, a good mother, I am certain that your sons will have a prosperous future. We have contacts with lead institutions, we can send them-" while talking Doctor McDonald prints copies of our documents.

"My children aren't a cargo or computers that can be marked and sent!" Our mother hissed. "They'll have right to decide which way they are going!" McDonald doesn't comment on that choice.

"Best therapy is introducing them to friends, getting them into a good crowd so they notice and pick up good habits." Doctor instructs giving her files. "They have to be monitored for(at all time, by a...?) a time- supply teachers are accessed in almost every bigger teaching body. Sherlock has lower quotient and better developed Limbic System; he might be suffering from ADHD, maybe a lower case of autistic spectrum, maybe Aspersers. Mycroft is a little bit advanced in that field. I will keep in contact- here is my number."

She gave our mother a slip of paper and looked as if waiting for us to leave.

"In 18th century people with such syndrome were called Idiot Savants" She said when we were about to leave.

"And what does to have to do with anything?" My mother asked, but the Doctor just smiled and called another patient.

**6.2**

_Phone call_

_**-Detective-**_

This corridor had to be endless. Every step costs me more and more energy and I don't think I can continue the trudge. Two bulky men that escort me have carbine set across their chests and emotionless expressions.

I try to think about anything,since Moriarty is too taxing, so I focus on John. Is he planning to escape from that aquarium room? Maybe he's also being taken somewhere else- whatever it is, he has a greater chances of living than him.

My survival is gradually decreasing deterioratively- Moriarty will milk information out of me and poison entire globe with it. I have no control of him whatsoever, if only I could contact Mycroft... He promised to help me when the situation is dire- and it surely is now.

We pass a door labelled "Communication Room" and a crazy scenario panged inside my head. The room was neighboured with toilet, as if for my luck.

"Can I go to the toilet?" I ask pleadingly, but not too smoothly.

The guards exchange glances and nod at me with approval. I can be very persuasive at times, or it's simply others are so tediously dull.

I made my way towards the branch that connects to the toilet and communication room; then, slip inside the space with monitors playing digits and CCTV footages from places all over the world: London was one of them.

Everything was so tediously easy. I chuckled to myself, laughing at how easy it was to barge in... My hand reached for the phone and dialled a personal number for my brother. As soon as the speakers emitted the sound; I realised my mistake.

I gave them direct, confidential phone number of most influential person in Britain. They can track it down, worse, they can track him now. I swear under my breath- what is done cannot be undone. Now pick up the bloody phone!

"Hallo?" Mycroft answers and that shred sunrays all over my body.

"Change the number as soon as I finish." I whisper. Communication room is currently empty, but for how long? And how long would it take for guards to realise that I didn't go to the toilets? Every second counts and I don't have time for Mycroft's processing.

"Sherlock!" He shouts- I am not sure if it is anger, surprise or annoyance. "Where are you? And what is this num-"

"Moriarty has us; we're in his trap, surrounded and weakened." I cut him and talk straight. "I don't know where I am and I cannot continue with this mission any longer. I cannot withdraw either."

"Sherlock, this operation is too fragile for me to just come and fetch you!" He explains through the phone, I look at the CCTV camera displays and listen with left ear to the sounds coming from behind the doors.

"Mycroft, he has me on a gunpoint." I cry out.

"He cannot- you have entered his communication device. Listen, try to get control over the situation- I know you can, little brother. Don't say I didn't warn you! Find Moriarty and evidence to prove him guilty then we can-."

There's a sound of coming footsteps.

I lure into the corner and beg Mycroft for silence. It is hard to play or cover with this white toga; I am a highlight that burns as bright as sun. Whoever will enter, will not let me go easily; like said to John, easy now, is an illusion; but it is dreadfully easy to get blinded by it.

Doors open and I cover the transmitter with my hand- but it bluntly slurs Mycroft's chatter.

A man enters the room; there's a gun pinned to his belt, shining in the lights of the monitors. He spots me quicker than I spot him; maybe due to the sound of the phone, or because of my eccentric clothing.

I jump out of the coverage and lure at his firepower, also aiming to cover his mouth from screaming; but he's smarter and quicker than I thought. He grasps me by my hand- and the clutch is so strong I feel like pressure of entire earth is focused on it. White layer of pain covers my vision and I scream so loudly nothing comes out of my mouth.

With an easy twist he brings my body clattering on the ground. I, for good measure destroy the phone in which Mycroft's asks "Sherlock, the hell is going on?', without knowing that there's no shoe on my feet- the plastic sends needles inside my foot.

I cry out with voice and tears; as the henchmen raises me up.

"Now- who do we have here?"

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><p><strong>Enjoy<strong>


	8. 70

** It took me quite a time to complete this- maybe because the thing had DELETED itself... And that I am wroking on my court-based novel "Painted Walls", look out anyway.**

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><p><strong>7.1<strong>  
><em>The Bloody Handkerchief<em>  
><strong>-Detective-<strong>

White is the coldest colour.  
>There's no denying; if one is to disagree then the one is to lie.<p>

My face looks no longer like mine, it had been beaten to plump; with both eyes blacked, nose crooked and lip severed so that torrents of blood plunge down to the floor like from a waterfall.

This is how I present myself to Moriarty; who is still wearing that pitiful white dress with that tasteless rose on his chest.  
>"You're amazing!" He said as soon as the guards had set me in the middle of the room. "Really, truly! I am awe-spired by your doings! Dying, but still caring. Even wasting safety of entire nation to save own skin- thanks for the number by the way- I will make use of it sometime in future."<br>I just stand speechless, any other move will scar me further, I won't risk it.

"Brother help me! Brother help me!" He mimics me. "Brother- Brother- Bother-Bother- and another!"  
>He aggressively steps forward, kicking the air.<p>

"I used my brother too!" He starts. "Good old James, never liked him, but he did like me. As soon as I realised you are lying and playing, I contacted him."

I try to connect the dots.

"Your brother died on that rooftop?" I asked him.

"James owned a petrol station and had a family, I combined both; he had to be dancing to my tune to save them. Too bad they died when he did too, but was funny." He explains. "Don't look at me like I cheated! You used option "Call the Friend" and I did too. I play fair, Sherlock, in my game of twisted rules." He stops to take a breath in. "Unlike you."

I try to think of a way to maim him without hurting myself. Pressure Points, I remind myself, everyone has to have one. Moriarty has to have too- I guess his fear is to "Fail a challenge with Sherlock"- and he's keeping a fairly good job from preventing it.

"You have tried to call your brother? Why didn't you tell me! I would be eager to help!" He weights himself on the tip toes, eyes eager.

The guard that stood in a circle around me moves forwards and hands me the phone, I take it with caution and hold uselessly.

"Tell your brother all you wanted to say, now without interruptions! See how nice am I?" He chatters when I consider my options. Mycroft has to know I am helpless; he also has to arrange a rescue mission and inform me without Moriarty realising. I think about codes I can use to communicate, but at that moment my mind is blank. For sake of god, I will figure something out! I dial the number aggressively, not taking my eyes away from Moriarty.  
>The static hums before the desired voice answers; he has no time to welcome me as I start.<p>

"He now has me on a gunpoint, literally. I am talking in front of him. He has me in his clutches." I state openly, my breath wobbles.  
>"Brother, mine." Is all he says, than silence follows. "There's a set of unidentified helicopters flying towards Ladra." He returns after considering. "They don't belong to us. Just informing you. It seems like there's a third party interested." I try to unravel those words, maybe it is a plan directive? Tasouhftl, tdbtujiyisltatpi. I try to look at the first letters: pointless. Maybe it is an anagram. Letters spin in my imagination- but sort into nothing. Maybe last letters count? Etfdsg- no- pointless. Maybe it is just a string of not focal information.<p>

"Sorry brother." He hangs up. I breathe out with unease, one of Moriarty's henchmen retrieves the communication device.  
>I am on my own. I wasn't for a long time. Awful feeling. Why did I not mind it years ago?<p>

I need to think, I need to turn the tables. Inspiration fills the grey cells in my head, I almost gasp with excitement; but it would be dangerous.  
>"Do you remember Doctor McDonald?" I am risking quite a deal when mentioning her- my deduction can be blank and I have high possibilities of getting it wrong, alas, I will reveal my past and privacy, but also arouse doubt and curiosity around my persona, which might just add flames to this hellfire. "Did she called you-" I clean my throat. "An idiot savant."<p>

His eyes reduce in size, he cannot control it, he cannot hide it; Moriarty blinks repetitively few times to ease the unease . I hit something in him, a delicate, loose string; something covered by personality and age.

I remember Doctor McDonald stating "we had one of those protegies yesterday"; they had seen a psychopathic brain in the area that wasn't mine or Mycrofts, Moriarty was similar age as me at that time, he also studied locally. Everything could be coincidental- but universe is rarely so lazy.

"She was a nice woman, engaged, well educated." I now hold Moriarty by strings, I have ability to play him, lets abuse the power I have, even if it was my final lament. "She offered me a place in CERN- you know which place, the one with great hadron collider."

Moriarty tries to keep himself steady and unaffected, but even when his tries are advanced, he fails to do so.

"I have no idea what are you talking about." He says plainly, but I just smile. I finally caught Moriarty's foundation, I can demolish it and bring him down.

"I-think-you-do." I say in his trademark sing-song voice, slowly strolling towards his presence. My actions put the surrounding guards at unease.  
>"Your brother mentioned copters-" he tries to change the topic, but I hold to the thread too tightly to let go.<p>

"Did she called you too? An idiot savant?" I ask, pride and glee illuminate in every organ of mine and I feel like dancing, but the cold mask is sealed. I am currently possessing him, great satisfaction.

"What was your IQ score?" I finally ask, we are meters away from each other.

"190." He says shyly but with tone of satisfaction.

I Look upward nonchalantly, "I had 240."

I pushed the string too tightly, his confidence is rising. He knows what I am planning- but is it past that would hurt and control this villain? He's too lunatic to have human emotion that can be strained- only thing that will hurt him is intellectual torture.

"My mother abandoned me as soon as she heard the result." He states, looking at anything but me, lost in retrospection. "I previously had taunted garden squirrels and accidentally slash intentionally murdered my third brother."

"How old were you when you were diagnosed?" I ask.

He looks upwards, "8", so he's older than me by 3.

"Mother knew I was very different, she had the comparison and all; we went to St. Dyphemas-"

"And that's when you got to know who you are, really are, at the base."

"I suspected it previously."

"your mother was afraid and"

"Set me into an isolation." He goes quiet for a moment; looking at the tapping red droplets hitting the pure floor repetitively. "You're bleeding." He notices, then digs his pockets and takes out white handkerchief which he throws under my legs.

Moriarty isn't planning an attack, but a distraction. I bow and take the fabric without leaving my sight from him. I pant with the effort- he injected me with something foreign and vile, maybe his own creation.

I try to maintain the blood leakage, but it is too severe, metallic taste invites my mouth, and I try my best to restrict gagging.

Mycroft seemed very unsupportive; he said he would help, and now, when I need support the most he leaves me with a blind eye. I want to crush him and break his neck, but he's right, a rescue mission would cost too many lives and won't be worth it. It was my idea to go here in the first place.  
>I turn and twist the handkerchief trying to find a part that wasn't scarlet, but the entire fabric was coated with the liquid.<p>

"I see that your presence here had got some attention." Moriarty breaks the silence when a female guardsmen whispers something to his ear. "I am going to leave. You're going too- but in different sense."

I looked upwards, guards tightened their grip around me and started to shuffle to some destination.  
>I have no power to fight them; I hold Moriarty's nerve string, but what does it give to me? I am powerless.<p>

**7.2 **  
><em>The Last March<em>  
><strong>-Blogger-<strong>

DOCTOR JOHN HAMISH WATSON REQUIRED ON THE DOCK

The transmitter calls out. And I am glad that it does- I don't think I would survive any longer with this low hum of water filters.

DOCTOR JOHN HAMISH WATSON REQUIRED ON THE DOCK.

"Yes- yes. I am going." I gasp out, knowing that the computer won't reply me. I wasn't escorted like Sherlock, I just walked through the corridor accompanied by nothing but orange glow coming from linear lamps.

I am dreadfully relaxed, which seems scary, as I have high possibilities of crashing down and dying any minute now.  
>The trudge through the corridor is endless, I walk with pace faster than my rapid heart.<p>

Corridors part, I look from one side to the another; there's no voice transmitters or arrows to direct me. I stand for a while, then pick to turn right, out of sheer liking.

Was it supposed to be like this?

Maybe Sherlock had disabled all the guards and now is waiting for me. Or this is another weird game of Moriarty.  
>No one looks at me. Or I hope so. An advantage- I can slip away without anyone noticing; but without Sherlock? I wish we had a communication device of sorts.<p>

Another forking. I groan with frustration. Every direction I pick shifts my scenario, and each step can cost my life; most irksome is the fact I have no sheer idea how to predict anything.

I hear footsteps, of many individuals tapping in harmony and equal pace. It sounded like foot guards.

A new scenario pops inside my head, Sherlock has this ability of hiding in the plain sight. He would use environment, a loose ribbon and whip of hair to change his looks and attitude. He can shift from being a highlight to being a part of the background.

I should be as equally talented as him- my features are hard to replicate or memorise- I look like a normal, unsuspected person. Which has its disadvantages in real life, but comes in as a rather handy aspect on this rare occasion.

To my sight emerges a squadron, it is one person short to my advantage. It marches evenly like an army.

I replicate their tempo and whisk, easily into the parade. My garniture was devastated and ripped in places; but looked almost like the clothing of the marching footmen. It was easy. So devastatingly easy I uttered a mute laughter.

They didn't recognise a new person joined their ranks they didn't see-, I didn't see when a bullet sliced my neck.

**7.3**  
><em>The Idiot and The Hero<em>  
><strong>-Detective-<strong>

"What did you did to him?" I ask, but he laughs soundlessly. "Tell me!"

Moriarty looked at us from a soundproof glass, parting a control room and a room that looked like a gas chamber, which I and limp body of John accompanied.

I tried to put the grimmest scenarios aside.

John is lying in my arms, his eyes sealed shut and mouth slightly opened. There's a faint pulse coming from him, and occasional groans. So I am not worried.

I set John down and rested by back on a neighbouring wall. There's so much that lead us both to this point, I think.  
>We meet by coincidence, and as I believe, the universe isn't so lazy. And the thing that bonded us must've been something stronger.<p>

It was coincidental a freshly returned soldier was looking for lodging and so did I. It was coincidental that he was a good shot, someone I required for my survival. It is coincidental that I was on a death defying case, and that was the time he appeared. Coincidences don't exist; and even when I am a rationalist and abhor supernatural higher power; I believe that the thing that screwed us together was a destiny. And John is the The Man Of Destiny. Wonder if it is that, that brought us here, to this exact point.  
>And we both, in this exact point, are going to fall.<p>

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><p><strong>This chapter deleted itself so I had to rewrite a great bit- sorry for the delay, sorry, another one will be shorter- promise. Not the chapter, the wait between them it is.<strong>


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